


You'll Never Work in Dis Bid'ness Again

by GreenWoman



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWoman/pseuds/GreenWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story takes place in the TM7/ATF alternate universe.</p><p>How would Vin's illiteracy translate into modern times?</p><p>This came to me following  discussions on the TM7 Legends list regarding Vin's illiteracy, and how to bring it forward into the ATF AU.</p><p>In response to this story, ATF/AU creator Maria Mogavero ("Mog") wrote a spinoff tale, "What Life is About," and a poem, "Key Biscayne," which are included at the end of this tale, with her generous permission.</p><p>With thanks and apologies to Walter Mirisch, John Watson, Trilogy Productions, CBS, Maria Mogavero, and Jimmy Buffett and friends, and proceeding under the assumption that forgiveness is easier to ask than permission....</p><p>07/27/1999</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Never Work in Dis Bid'ness Again

"Come on, guys!"

JD Dunne whirled the desk chair impatiently, sending it into a spinning blur. It was Friday evening, and after hours for the staff at the ATF office, but Chris Larabee's team had been working late writing their reports about the previous night's operation. In celebration of a job well done, Larabee had promised them all a party at the little bar down the street, and JD was chafing at their delayed departure. He gave another twist to the chair, sending it once more into riotous whirling. "Buck! Where the hell are you?"

A crumpled paper cup hit the back of the young man's head, and he spun around. "Calm down, son." Buck Wilmington's mustache crinkled in a grin as he peered around the doorframe of his office, then hurriedly ducked back out of sight when a Pink Pearl eraser flew in his direction. His big hand reached out and grabbed it from the air and he leaned back into JD's view, shaking the missle at its launcher.

"Now, JD, don't be losin' Miss Bell's eraser ... we all know how bad she needs it."

JD laughed as he fielded the well-worn eraser that Buck tossed back at him. "Hell, Vin needs it worse," he said. "He's gonna burn out the motor on the shredder redoing his report."

Chris Larabee appeared in the door of his own office, loosened his tie and tugged it from his collar. "Vin's doing just fine, JD," he said, a hint of reprimand in his voice.

"But Chris--"

"Relax, JD," said Josiah Sanchez in a firm voice. "Vin's just being thorough." Josiah threaded his way gracefully through the empty desks in the bullpen secretarial area, dropped his hands on JD's shoulders, and shook him affectionately. "We'll go on ... he can catch up with us."

"Yeah, JD," laughed Nathan Jackson as he joined the group. "You may finish writin' first, but that don't mean you turn in a better report than Vin does." He stretched his arms in the air, almost touching the accoustical ceiling; the popping of his shoulder joints was audible and made the others flinch.

"Jeezus, Nathan," winced Buck, "do you have to do that?"

"Stretch? Yeah ... all that typin' makes me stiff."

"That sound gives me the creeps."

"Oh yeah?" said Nathan. "Well, I ain't never said nothin' about you fartin' in your office. You think we enjoy that?"

The others chuckled; JD collapsed into the chair he'd been spinning, doubled over with laughter. Buck turned red. "These offices are supposed to be sound-proof," he muttered.

"Face it, Buck ... you're just a powerful force of nature," said Josiah. This sent everyone into unrestrained guffaws except the powerful force himself, who instead turned bright red.

"I appear to have missed something," drawled Ezra Standish as he strolled into the room. "Care to enlighten me?"

"Just havin' a laugh at Buck's expense," said Nathan.

"Well, then, you must fill me in on the way to our little gathering," said Ezra, straightening his silk tie.

"Aw, Ezra, we can't go yet ... Vin's still working on his damn report," griped JD. "I wish he could write as good as he can shoot. We should've blown out of here an hour ago."

"JD...." Chris said again.

The laser printer shared by the entire office fired up with its distinctive whir. "Finally," JD muttered. He got to his feet and walked over to the machine, pulled the first sheet out of the tray, and scanned it. "Jeez.... He's got spellcheck and grammar tools on his computer, but he still writes like a kid!"

"I'll take that, JD," said a soft drawl.

None of them had heard the cowboy boots on the carpet. Vin Tanner walked quietly up to JD and extended his hand; embarrassed into silence, the young agent turned over the sheet of paper. Eyes lowered, Vin picked up the half-dozen remaining sheets of the report from the printer tray and fanned through them. "Seems I still got some work to do on this," he murmured without looking up. "Y'all go on without me."

"Vin, I--"

"S'okay, JD," said Vin, his eyes still glued to the paper. "I'll see y'all later. You and Buck save a beer for me." The six men watched as their coworker headed back to his office.

"Shit." JD sat on the edge of a desk, his own eyes on the floor. Buck walked over and cuffed him on the side of the head, none too gently.

"You'd best plan on buyin' that first beer for him, boy," growled the older man. "And all the others after that."

"I'm sorry," said JD in a subdued voice. "I didn't mean for him to hear that."

"It's usually wise to think before you speak, son," said Josiah softly. JD nodded, and hung his head. An awkward silence fell.

"I'll go talk to him," said Chris, starting for Vin's office.

Ezra casually stepped in front of the taller man, and just as casually dropped his hand to the pocket of his tailored slacks and assumed a rueful smile. "Gentlemen, I suggest we follow Mr. Tanner's suggestion. Inez is holding our table for us ... we oughtn't keep her waiting. Why don't y'all go on ahead to the 'saloon'," he said, using the name the team jokingly applied to the small bar they frequented. "I seem to have left my wallet in my briefcase; I'll retrieve it, look in on our coworker, and be right behind you."

Chris and Josiah looked at each other and then at Ezra's slacks; the manicured hand seemed to be covering a bulge in the front pocket that looked suspiciously like a wallet. But they said nothing. "We'll order your first round, Ezra," said Josiah. He and Buck each took one of JD's arms and tugged the dejected young agent to his feet. "Let's go, JD."

"See you there, Ezra," said Nathan as he fell into step with the three men. Chris looked again at Ezra's back as the southerner disappeared down the hall, frowned, but turned and followed the others in the opposite direction, toward the elevators.

~~~

Ezra stood in the door of Vin's office for a moment, looking around. He never ceased to be intrigued at the way his coworkers had decorated their individual workplaces. His own office had remained determinedly sterile. Previous dismissals, coupled with bitter memories of carrying cardboard boxes to his car, had left the southerner with an almost superstitious feeling that the moment he brought something personal into his work area, he would lose this job which had become so important to him. Ezra's desk was occupied by his computer, the accessories that the office manager had ordered for him, a pair of In and Out boxes with the contents neatly stacked, and nothing else.

In marked contrast, the offices of the six men he worked with were clear reflections of their occupants. Chris' desk and office furniture were piled high with files and paperwork. Almost lost among the stacks of reference books on the credenza behind his chair, but noted on the first visit by Ezra's sharp eye, were a small silver frame holding a picture of a smiling young woman and a toddler, and a single brass spur. Buck and JD had toys scattered everywhere, a custom that had started when JD had joined the team and Buck had presented him with a squirt gun. JD had retaliated with a dartboard that had Buck's picture hot-glued to the center, and the gift exchange had continued from there. Among other things, Buck's desk now sported a model of a nude woman, her bright plastic organs visible beneath her transparent skin and a miniature Hawaiian lei around her neck. JD's desk was littered with a mixture of CD ROMs, Zip discs, and the parts for a scale model of a classic Indian WWI messenger's motorcycle which he'd been trying to assemble for months. Like their team leaders' workplace, Josiah's and Nathan's offices were piled high with books of all kinds. In addition, though, Nathan's window was lined with carefully tended plants and his walls held framed copies of his degrees and citations, while Josiah's displayed prints of historical sites from around the world.

Vin's office was Ezra's favorite, and he often dropped in not only to engage the insightful Texan in an occasional quiet session of shop talk, but also to enjoy the relaxed ambience the man's workplace offered. Inexpensive frame shop prints of Western scenes by Remington and Russell, a desert sunset by Georgia O'Keefe, and photographs of American Indians, shared the walls with a signed and numbered Erte lithograph of a semi-nude woman walking with wolves that Ezra had seen Vin admire in a gallery window and purchased for him. Nathan had installed a ficus Nitida and a spathiphyllum Mauna Loa, while Vin himself had accumulated several cacti of varying sizes on his windowsill. A small wooden carving of a howling coyote perched on the top of the computer terminal amid a handful of arrowheads and pottery shards the young agent had picked up on camping trips in the southwest.

And resting in a prominent spot on the desk was a brass spur; the twin of the one Chris Larabee possessed.

Ezra strolled into the office, settled into one of the leather chairs, and reached for the spur. A flick of his finger set the rowel to spinning. Buck had bought the spurs in an antique shop and broken the set between the two men. It was the big-hearted man's uncharactistically subtle way of giving his blessing to the friendship that had grown between his oldest friend and the newer member of the team. Ezra watched the rowel's motion slow and finally stop, fought down a brief pang of envy at what the three men shared, and tried to think of what to say to the man who sat behind the desk. A man whose quiet acceptance had come to mean a great deal to Ezra.

Vin allowed him no time to decide on the right words. "Ezra, get the hell out of here," he said conversationally, never taking his eyes from the monitor.

"The boy meant nothing by it," said Ezra gently.

"I know."

"Nothing wrong with him that time won't cure."

"Same goes for me."

"That doesn't seem to be the case."

"None of your business."

Ezra sighed. "Mr. Tanner, right now I'm missing a party because two of the men I work with are at odds with each other. One more is fretting because he's not in here playing mother hen to you, and the other three are brooding over the situation. I'd much rather be sitting at a table in the bar down the street having a drink and listening to you six harangue each other in your usual friendly fashion ... it's a perk of this job that I've grown accustomed to and rather fond of."

"Sorry to be crampin' your style, Ezra," drawled Vin sarcastically. "But I ain't gonna get this damned thing written any faster with you sittin' there chafin' my butt."

"No pressure here, Mr. Tanner, I assure you," replied Ezra. "I am merely wondering if I might assist you in some fashion."

"No."

"I've read your reports," Ezra persisted. "You could use some help."

"I ain't no Hemingway."

"You could be better than you are."

Vin shoved his chair back from the desk and turned burning blue eyes on Ezra. "Don't patronize me," he warned. "They're just police reports. Who the hell cares?"

"I think you do."

"Dammit!" Vin's patience suddenly flared beyond its limit. He slammed his palms on the desk, then pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "I write like shit. I know I write like shit! JD knows it too ... so do all the secretaries, and the main office. And Chris." He stalked to the window, his back stiff, his shoulders hunched. "I know it embarrasses him in front of the brass to sign off on my reports. But they ain't never gonna be any better."

"They could be much better," repeated the southerner. "Let me show you how."

"Give it up, Ezra," Vin said bitterly. "I didn't need no books to teach me about life ... the orphanage and the Army taught me plenty. I made it through school by the skin of my teeth. Worked my way through college takin' care of rich folks' horses, bribin' their kids' tutors to help me out, and bluffin' the rest. I've paid my dues, I'm damn good at what I do, and I figure I've saved your educated butts often enough for you to cut me some slack."

Ezra sighed. It was true. Vin's street savvy, well-honed instincts and skilled gunhand had made a difference to all of them, many times. He stood and walked to the window to stand shoulder to shoulder with the younger man. When he spoke his voice was soft, but urgent.

"You're right, Vin. In point of fact, I owe you for a hell of a lot more than my life. But I always took you for a fair man; I thought you'd be gracious enough to allow me to pay my debt without scorning the coin in which that payment is offered."

Vin frowned; he faced Ezra for the first time, and was taken aback at the unguarded eyes that met his searching look. He masked his surprise with dry humor. "Even I ain't dumb enough to take Confederate money," he drawled, taking the sting from the remark with a rare grin.

Ezra let go the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Well, then, perhaps you might be persuaded to take it out in trade," he said, lifting one hand toward the computer.

Vin took a deep breath, and nodded. "Okay. But no ten dollar words. Chris'll accuse me of havin' a ghost writer."

"I trust you'll cover my back in future operations and ensure that pessimistic scenario does not become a reality."

Vin took a moment to sort out what Ezra had said, then laughed out loud as he walked back to his desk. Ezra dragged a chair up next to him, and the two men leaned over the keyboard, shoulder to shoulder.

"Now," Ezra began, "you're very good at telling stories, Vin. Simply start telling the computer the story of what happened last night, just the way you'd tell the rest of us if we were sitting together down at the saloon."

Vin scrolled back to the beginning of his report, and began to hunt and peck his way across the keys. "At least the computer won't interrupt me," he mumbled.

"No, but I will," said Ezra. "Stay in the same tense ... don't shift from past to present to past again. And just because your spellcheck says a word is correct, that doesn't mean the usage is. There are some easy rules to remember."

"Easy. Sure."

"Indeed," Ezra assured him. "Take the words 'lay' and 'laid.' 'I lay down on the bed. I laid my coat on the bed. I lied the woman into the bed.'" He waited to see if Vin had caught the joke.

Vin had. "I'll bet that one is easy for Buck to remember," he said.

"Mr. Wilmington picked it up right away," nodded Ezra. "Now, regarding contractions...."

~~~

Inez looked up from the bar as two of her favorite customers walked through the door together. From the moment she had served the first round to the five men who already sat at their regular table in a corner of the room, Inez had sensed the tension among them and wondered what it might have to do with the missing two of their number. Now she looked to Chris Larabee and Josiah Sanchez, the emotional barometers of the group, for a reading on the situation. From the expressions on their faces as they greeted the newcomers, Inez could see that whatever had been awry was no longer a problem. She smiled to herself in relief, filled a mug with cold draft and a chilled flute with champagne and, carefully balancing the drinks on her tray, rounded the end of the bar with a grace that drew every male eye in the place. She arrived at the table just as the two latecomers were taking their seats.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she said cheerfully, and set the drinks down.

"Hey, Inez," nodded Vin. "Thanks." He took a long pull at his beer. Ezra accepted the glass of champagne and reached for the hand that had offered it, gracing the fingers with a brush of his lips. "Gracias," he said, carefully rolling the "r" as she had taught him.

"Very good, senor," Inez said encouragingly. "Now, you must try that on someone who doesn't know you, and perhaps she will be impressed."

"You wound me, Inez," said Ezra in mock hurt, as Buck burst out laughing.

Vin looked across the table at JD, whose attention was determinedly focused on his beer mug. "Hey, kid," he said softly, "you want to pass those pretzels over here?"

The boy looked up, and Vin's gut twisted as he saw the guilt shadowing the guileless brown eyes. Gotta fix that, he thought, fishing a pretzel out of the dish.

"I got a favor to ask," he said aloud. "Can I come over to your place Sunday afternoon? Gotta change the spark plugs on my Harley. Maybe do your ride, too? We can pool our tools, have a few beers ... four hands make an easier job."

JD's face lit up for a moment, then doubt flickered across it, and the guilt returned. "I'm sorry, Vin," he started, but Vin cut him off.

"For what? For losin' my three-quarter rachet? You're right ... I ain't never gonna forgive you for that, so don't even bring it up no more. You buy the beer, and we'll forget about it."

JD frowned and opened his mouth, but Buck nudged him with his broad shoulder and fixed gentle blue eyes on his young friend. Eyes that said, He ain't talkin' about the wrench, kid. Don't embarrass him no more with it.

JD hesitated, then turned back to Vin and smiled. "How about I pick you up and we hit Pep Boys together, and I replace that wrench?"

"I ain't piggybackin' on that Hot Wheels toy of yours, kid."

"Well, I'll borrow Buck's truck."

"You'll what?" protested Buck. "Only if I'm drivin' it!" He grabbed a pretzel from the bowl and pitched it at JD, who ducked; the snack hit Nathan square in the forehead. Josiah burst out laughing. As one, Buck, Vin and JD reached for the pretzel bowl. Inez looked up from the bar and called out, "Buck Wilmington, you start another food fight in here and I'm throwing you out!"

Chris met Ezra's eyes across the table, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of the team leaders's mouth. Ezra lifted his glass in a silent toast. A pretzel landed in it, splashing a generous amount of Korbel Brut onto Ezra's silk tie. Everyone at the table froze.

Calmly, Ezra fished the projectile from the champagne flute and fixed cold green eyes on the offender. "Inez," he drawled, "another glass, please. On Mr. Dunne's tab. And we seem to need more pretzels." With a flick of his wrist, he sailed the wet dough in his hand directly into JD's beer mug.

"You're on my team, Ezra," said Vin, scooting his chair closer to the southerner and dropping a handful of pretzels on the table in front of him.

Ezra nodded. So it seems, he thought.

And, smiling, he picked up another pretzel.

~ 30 ~

~ ~ ~

WHAT LIFE IS ABOUT

by Maria Mogavero

This was written by Maria Mogavero ("Mog"), creator of the ATF/AU, as a spinoff of my story You'll Never Work in Dis Bidness Again. I present it here with her generous permission, and with my deep appreciation. ~ GreenWoman

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Mirisch/Watson/Trilogy Prod/CBS -- just borrowing, not making money.

Author's Notes: This is a continuation of GreenWoman's "You'll Never Work in Dis Bidness Again"; if you haven't read that, this won't be very meaningful (plus you'll be missing out on some really great writing). This one is dedicated to GW and Derry, with much thanks for bringing your talents to the ATF AU. ~ Mog

"But I had to see what life is about".... 

YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN DIS BIDNESS ~ Jimmy Buffett

~~~

We all have our little secrets, our superstitious fears  
The things we're sure no one can cure, that will bring down our careers. 

But what if we just traded, I'll take yours and you take mine  
'Cause you ain't afraid of big words and I ain't afraid of flyin'. 

KEY BISCAYNE ~ Maria Mogavero

~~~

As he stood, watching it fall, powerless to stop it, he wished for that split second he possessed Vin Tanner's reflexes. The clear plastic cup hit the cement floor of the parking garage; the combined force of gravity and pressure popping the lid off and flinging the Grande Mocha Frappuccino with a scoop of protein powder across Ezra's Spanish leather shoes and up the left calf of his light gray dress pants. He hadn't gotten two steps from his car, hadn't even shut the door, when the icy drink he balanced on his portfolio slid its way across the flat leather case and succumbed, along with his sunglasses case, to one of Newton's theories.

"Oh, marvelous." 

Ezra rested the portfolio on the roof of the Jaguar and leaned into the car to retrieve some napkins from the glovebox. He managed to get most of the chocolatey drink off his pants and shoes but the dark wet stain was evident and he suspected it would be obvious even after it dried. 

Gathering up the used napkins, he stuffed them into the mostly empty cup, pressed the lid back on and wrapped it in a plastic bag from the trunk. He hit the automatic lock and pushed the car door closed, not bothering to arm the alarm. As he grabbed up his leather case and the recently acquired garbage, Ezra couldn't help but notice the small furry visitor at his feet lapping up the rapidly melting Frap. 

"Well, well, the vultures have come to prey." Standish tucked his portfolio under his arm and bent down to give Cuervo some well-received scratches at the base of the cat's tail. The feline paused briefly to acknowledge the affection with a squeaky meow but then turned his attention back to the milky treat as if he was worried that it would get away. 

Ezra stepped over the small form, "Enjoy, my dear boy. But," he pointed a slim finger at the well fed little cat, "so help me, God, if I come back here and find even one Frappuccino footprint on the hood of this car, I will be sportin' little orange and white glove warmers this winter." 

Standish crossed to the elevators of the federal building that housed the ATF office, trying to ignore the wet, stickiness that was attempting to adhere his pantleg to his shin. He deposited the plastic bag into the small garbage by the heavy steel doors and pressed the 'up' button. The elevator let him off in the lobby and he passed through security, upset not that he had just lost three, ninety-seven but that his craving for the Starbucks specialty drink was going unfixed. Taking the second set of elevators to the eighth floor, Ezra glanced at his watch. Forty-minutes late. Divine.

Standish sensed that several of the other passengers stared briefly at his damp pantleg. He couldn't help but recall a piece of an e-mail that Tanita from the photo lab had forwarded to him entitled, "Things To Do In An Elevator."

"Turn to the person next to you, grin and say, 'I have new socks on.' Meow occasionally."

That would certainly give them something justifiable to stare at.

The doors opened and the southerner threaded his way through the data entry bullpen toward the corner of the floor that he spent a majority of his waking hours in. As he passed one desk in particular he couldn't help but notice the variety of balloons, flowers and crepe decorations that saturated the work space. Ezra paused briefly, addressing the young man behind the desk, "David, I thought your birthday wasn't till the twenty-fifth." 

The bleach-blonde smiled and bobbed his head, "It is." 

"Buuut, tomorrow's the twenty-fifth." 

David responded in the same slow manner, "Nooo, today's the twenty-fifth." He turned his Dilbert day calendar toward the southerner showing a distinct two-five next to the word 'Monday. ' 

"Aw, hell." Ezra controlled himself enough to not break into a run but the long strides he took toward the large conference room made it clear he was very late for something. Through the glass walls of the meeting area he could see the three teams breaking up and begin to file out. Make that an hour and forty minutes late.

Standish rolled his eyes as Tulloch and White tsk-tsk'd him on their way past. Buck patted Ezra's shoulder as he exited the room, "Nice of ya to join us, Agent Standish. Oh, if ya missed any of that part there at the end, I'll let ya see my notes." 

Standish couldn't help but swallow hard as Chris stopped in front of him. "You're late." 

"Yes." Ezra unconsciously ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip. "Ya see, I was thinkin' tomorrow was the twenty-fifth...and then the car was on empty and...." he paused and motioned toward his still wet pantleg as he thought silently, And, damn, why can't I ever seem to talk my way out of a situation with this man?

Larabee's expression hadn't changed; lips pressed together, impassive blue eyes. His gaze flicked to the clock in the conference room, then back to Standish. "An hour and forty minutes." 

"Yes. I--" 

"Save it. Get the briefs from one of the others." Chris crossed to his office, leaving Ezra pressing at the headache that suddenly appeared at his left temple.

Standish made his way to the break room, ignoring the smart-ass comments of his co-workers directed at his tardiness and the Frapaccino stain at his lower leg. He dropped his portfolio on the counter and from the cupboard pulled down a mug that stated, 'If you look good and dress well, you don't need a purpose in life.' Ezra wondered how much lower his morning could sink as he reached for his coffee grinder and realized it would be rather ineffectual without the whole beans he had forgotten to purchase. Desperate for caffeine, the southerner poured out a dose of the office brew, gathered up his leather case and headed for his desk. 

He noticed it instantly. And when, later in the day, he reflected back on his immediate reaction he was surprised and a little saddened that the reaction had been fear. 

A decoration had found its way into his office. 

Something that would imply that this was his space, that this was somewhere he felt comfortable. Suggest a surrounding where friends could come to him. Indicate a place that he wished very much to stay at. 

But becoming attached had never worked out well for Ezra Standish. Whether it was being moved from place to place by his mother during childhood or cleaning out his desk as yet another tenure in his career had been revoked. He had developed an unconscious superstition toward laying claim to anything he felt he could not wholly control. Yet someone else had brought this in. If it wasn't actually his then perhaps it didn't count. 

A small, potted cactus sitting next to a postcard print of Erte's black background 'Alphabet' set in a brushed silver frame. A carefully printed note on a clean, half sheet of unlined paper rested next to the gifts. 

"To some, the cactus looks like it's trying to keep the world from getting close to it. But for those who get past its needles, it holds the stuff that nourishes life."

Ezra couldn't help the small smile that found its way to his lips. He rested his portfolio and coffee mug on his desk and took a moment to neatly fold the note and slip it behind the postcard so it was wedged securely between the print and the frame's backing. Extending the thin stem of the frame, he propped the picture back in its place beside the small spiny plant, pulled out the high-backed office chair and took a seat; realizing he would most likely be staying late in his office that night...and for once, not minding a bit. 

~ ~ ~ ~

KEY BISCAYNE

by Maria Mogavero

Maria Mogavero (Mog) opened her ATF/AU story "What Life is About" with a lyric. I pressed her for its source, and she produced this wonderful song, which utterly captures the kind of friendship I can see between a modern-day Ezra Standish and Vin Tanner. I present it here with her generous permission, and with my deep appreciation. ~ GreenWoman

In a bar in Key Biscayne I met  
A man who was my brother  
Though we didn't look or talk or act or sound like one another.  
A mirror-image likeness - opposite in every way.  
As we shared our fears and poured our beers  
I listened to him say,  
"It really does amaze me, how casual you are.  
You drift through life, with wits and knife  
And yet you've come so far." 

I admitted right back to him, I was as 'mazed as he.  
A silver tongue, a silver ring and silver by Degree.  
"You make it look so easy." He laughed and shook his head.  
"If I didn't, let me tell ya, boy, I'd be long since dead."  
It seems his mama raised him, just like mine never did,  
Your only wealth's to trust yourself and keep that real self hid.  
For all of his refinements, there was sadness in his eyes,  
So I offered him a 'rangement, void of loopholes and of lies. 

"We all have our little secrets, our superstitious fears  
The things we're sure no one can cure, that will bring down our careers.  
But what if we just traded, I'll take yours and you take mine,  
'Cause you ain't afraid of big words and I ain't afraid of flyin'."

He stared at me a moment and thought on it awhile  
And though he didn't say a word, I swore I saw him smile.  
He seemed to see me different than those he'd known before,  
He said, "I'll think about it," as he headed for the door.  
Well there I was the next day at that bar in Key Biscayne,  
Shootin' back tequila and hidin' from the rain.  
When a man came in from outside and approached me silently,  
He poured himself a small shot, sat down and spoke to me. 

"We all have our little secrets, our superstitious fears  
The things we're sure no one can cure, that will bring down our careers.  
But what if we just traded, I'll take yours and you take mine,  
'Cause I'm not afraid of big words and you're not afraid of flyin'."


End file.
